


The Collected Praises of Grantaire

by aeolians



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Praise Kink, Prompt Fic, Prompt Fill, might added more chapters as I get ideas so I'm leaving it open
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-26
Updated: 2015-04-20
Packaged: 2018-03-09 03:02:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,899
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3233861
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aeolians/pseuds/aeolians
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grantaire develops a praise kink and Enjolras is the only one who catches on.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Well, yesgrantaire over on tumblr posted "i want R with a praise kink and i want it now," then reposted it and added "i see u all reblogging this but no one is talking to me about it pls" when it was close to a hundred notes. Suddenly this popped into my head. It was just going to be a short drabble, but... 2,000+ words later, here we are. It, uh, ran away with me.
> 
> So enjoy! Leaving it as unfinished because there's a few ideas to continue it in my head, so I'll probably be adding chapter installments every so often. (As ever, you can follow me at aeolians.tumblr.com)

Grantaire was always one of those people who never did get much praise in life. It wasn't until he started hanging out at the Musain and met all of his friends that he really started to be appreciated and began to really get any praise at all. An appreciative comment, a sincere smile, a look of respect . . . it was all new to Grantaire, and it was exciting. Thrilling. _Arousing_.

He quickly realized that this might be a bit of a problem.

The first time it happened was when Bossuet introduced him to the group. Grantaire had been distracted, staring at Enjolras as he stared back, and wasn't really listening for the last few seconds until suddenly Enjolras barked out a question to something Bossuet had said.

"Why would he want to join us if he's so cynical?"

A simple question, really (and a fair one, Grantaire had to concede), but it led to Bossuet clamping a hand down around Grantaire's shoulders and holding him close tightly. He went on about how Grantaire might seem cynical, but from playing devil's advocate he managed to make good points, bringing a fresh perspective or new idea to the argument or debate that others may not think of, and he always knows just what to say that'll push someone into making the best argument possible. Kneading Grantaire's shoulder firmly, Bossuet grinned at Grantaire, his eyes lit up with the passion of his opinionated outburst.

All of Grantaire's emotions went straight to his dick in five seconds flat.

Luckily if anyone saw his cheeks flush, they'd just think it was with embarrassment of being praised so publicly. The very thing causing his blush—praise—provided the perfect cover for the sudden redness in his face and shifting from foot to foot.

The next time it happened it was in the midst of a debate about some issue Grantaire long since forgot about. It had started out as a discussion everyone was contributing to, but somehow most of them had quickly become spectators, watching as Enjolras threw out point after point and Grantaire calmly shot each one down. This was new to all of them; never before had they seen Enjolras getting so frustrated in a debate. No one had ever been as much of a verbal competitor to him as Grantaire was proving to be.

Finally, the unthinkable happened: Enjolras gave up. Staring hard at Grantaire, he sat down and remained silent, holding Grantaire's gaze. Finally, he looked away and made a sound of disgust.

The room practically erupted into cheers.

"Good job, R!"

"We've never seen Enjolras get so pissed in a debate—"

"That was beautiful."

"Courf, did you see—"

"Yes! Grantaire, I could kiss you, that was magnificent."

"I think we need to seriously consider putting him in the audience as a plant."

"Bahorel, we can't—"

"Oh come on, Combeferre, you have to admit that Grantaire just did what none of us have ever done . . ."

Grantaire was grinning without realizing it, but it wasn't the compliments themselves that made him happy; it was the fact that so many compliments were directed at him in the first place. Everyone jostled around him, clapping him on the back and going in for high fives. Grantaire felt something shift low in his abdomen; that familiar creeping feeling of oncoming arousal, strong and ever-growing.

As everyone moved around him, talking noisily, Grantaire felt sure that someone would notice the poorly-positioned bulge at the front of his pants, but no one did. When Jehan swooped down upon him in a hug, he just barely had time to shift his hips back to keep his hug-happy friend from getting too much of Grantaire in the hug.

As his friends started moving away, he casually put a hand into his pocket to adjust himself when his eyes caught Enjolras'. Their leader didn't seem mad or furious, as Grantaire might have assumed he would be after losing a debate. He was simply watching Grantaire, his face unreadable. Steady, unblinking.

Grantaire could have sworn everyone probably heard his sharp intake of breath.

He knew his face was red; he could feel the heat flushing his face and neck. His hand in his pocket, which had just started adjusting himself, froze as soon as he had locked eyes with Enjolras. Grantaire slowly sat back down as everyone else also settled, chatting and drinking in small groups around the room. Only Grantaire and Enjolras sat apart, staring one another down.

After what felt like a long time but was only a few seconds, Grantaire finally adjusted himself properly, and Enjolras smirked.

—————

Soon enough, Grantaire had to admit to himself that he had developed a kink. Something about being praised turned him on; maybe it was the position of authority it felt like he unknowingly had when praised, or maybe it was the idea of being appreciated and revered for once in his life instead of being the one doing the appreciating.

When it came down to it, Grantaire really didn't like trying to figure out why it turned him on.

Ever since that first long debate between them, Grantaire noticed that Enjolras would watch him when he received praise. Grantaire sometimes wondered if Enjolras knew. Every little "good job with those pamphlets, R," or such thrown-away compliment had Enjolras' eyes darting briefly to Grantaire, studying, appraising. Each time this happened Grantaire forced himself to ignore it, told himself that he was being ridiculous, and moved on.

But there came a point where he couldn't quite ignore it anymore.

Grantaire was reading over some notes Joly had given him for a pamphlet they were working on together, hunched over the table biting on a pencil and drinking a beer when it happened. He jumped when a sketchbook— _his_ sketchbook—was dropped on the table in front of him from behind.

"We need to talk."

 _Enjolras_.

Grantaire froze, waiting. Enjolras was directly behind him; he could feel Enjolras' weight against the back of his chair.

Grantaire cleared his throat. "What's up?"

"This," Enjolras said, leaning in over Grantaire's shoulder to tap a finger against the sketchbook. Grantaire could feel Enjolras' breath against the nape of his neck, coming out in soft, warm puffs that tickled the hair there before curling into the space behind his ear.

"What of it," Grantaire asked, surprised at how steady his voice was despite how unsteady his stomach felt. "It's my sketchbook."

"Yes," Enjolras said softly, slowly. "Your sketchbook. You've been using us for life models when you've not been paying attention, haven't you?"

All of the fluttering uneasiness in Grantaire's chest suddenly shifted, falling like a stone to the bottom of his stomach. So that's what this was about, he realized. He was being reprimanded.

"Yeah, but you tend to drone on sometimes and drawing helps me focus, so—"

"That's not why I'm here, Grantaire," the other boy murmured into the hollow behind his ear. "I'm here because I wanted to tell you how great you are at capturing everyone perfectly on paper."

Grantaire froze, suddenly realizing where this could potentially go—or, more accurately, realizing how his body would react to where this was potentially headed—and for once in his life he was wishing he wasn't so physically close to Enjolras, who was leaning over even more to open up the sketchbook.

"Look at this one of Jehan," he started, lightly tracing the line of their friends neck. "Look at how perfectly you captured his delicate strength, his strong sense of good things and righteousness. All that in the expression of his face, in the way you drew his eyes . . ."

Oh, no. No, no, no. This wasn't good for Grantaire, and he now had more than a sneaking suspicion that Enjolras knew that, too.

"There was a really great one of Bahorel somewhere . . . aha, there it is," Enjolras said, shifting so that he was now next to Grantaire instead of beside him. It was so much better when Grantaire didn't have to meet his gaze.

"Look at how you captured his strength of body, but his joking spirit in the curve of his lips, the gleam in his eyes. He looks ready to come fighting right off the page, doesn't he?"

Grantaire was pretty sure he would have preferred to be reprimanded. This was just _torture_.

"I think I saw one of—oh, there he is," Enjolras continued, looking down at a drawing of Combeferre. Enjolras sighed. "His presence is always calming, even if it's just on paper, don't you agree, Grantaire?" Enjolras placed a hand firmly on Grantaire's shoulder, murmuring close to his ear, and, yep, there it was. Grantaire was pretty sure he was harder than he had ever been in his life. Grantaire could only let out a soft, strangled sound as answer, which made Enjolras grin.

"I'd say I can't believe how perfectly you drew Combeferre, but I _do_ believe it. You're an amazing artist, Grantaire."

Grantaire breathed in harshly, shifting his legs uncomfortably and letting out a shaky breath. Enjolras sounded so sincere, Grantaire could almost believe it. Almost.

"And if anyone knows Combeferre," Enjolras continued, "it would be me. After all, we've known each other since our early school days. Just look at how you captured his arched eyebrow! So much expression. Amazing, Grantaire," he said, turning his head to speak softly into his ear again, breath warm against Grantaire's flushed skin. "Absolutely amazing."

Grantaire couldn't sit still anymore. His breath was coming out heavy through his nostrils, his chest rising and falling as he tried not to groan out loud. As it was, a gasp or whimper would occasionally escape him, soft and quiet. He couldn't let anyone know what was happening, and he knew it. So did Enjolras.

Grantaire's legs were getting fidgety; he couldn't sit just sit there, not when he was aching to be touched, needing to relieve himself of his pants and loose himself completely in Enjolras' words. He kept constantly shifting his hips, biting his lips at the friction his pants caused. Damn Enjolras, Grantaire decided. He had to know what he was doing to Grantaire; as obvious as Grantaire must be to someone so close, his tormentor seemed to be completely oblivious.

"Oh, and we can't forget my personal favorite," Enjolras said, turning back to the sketchbook with a grin. He flipped through to some of he more recent pages and stopped at the one Grantaire hoped and prayed he would skip over.

It was Enjolras.

Well, it was a study of him, anyway. At the center of the page stood Enjolras, a fiery god in the midst of many smaller versions of him and studies of his body. The flick of a wrist and long, delicate fingers. The curve of his lips, open and ready to speak. The spark in his eyes as he debated passionately. All of this was on the page and the back of the one facing it.

Grantaire groaned.

"Come now, Grantaire, you can't think I wouldn't compliment you on this. You put the masters to shame," he added, murmuring almost to himself, gently tracing the lines on the paper.

A strangled moan died in Grantaire's throat.

"Look here, at my hair. There's movement there. Buoyancy. And my face . . . do you really see me this way, Grantaire? I guess you must, seeing as how you drew everyone else so true to life. But this . . . there's just so much life in this sketch, in these studies, even. This is . . . well, I'm at a lost for words. You manage to copy people's looks, yes, but you get their personality, too. Their essence. A bit of their soul, even."

Enjolras was silent a moment, staring at himself upon the page while Grantaire, refusing to say _fuck it_ and try to discreetly palm himself here amongst their friends, kept shifting awkwardly on his seat. Suddenly, though, his chin was being grabbed and Enjolras was was in his face. They were nearly nose to nose, and Grantaire stilled in Enjolras' grasp, biting down hard on his bottom lip as Enjolras held his gaze.

"Grantaire, I truly think you're one of the most talented artists I've ever seen."

Grantaire moaned and whimpered as he felt himself release into his pants, his hips jerking slightly. He let out his breath all in a rush, not realizing he had been holding it since Enjolras had grabbed his chin. He was still panting a little when Enjolras let go of his chin and smirked, a corner of his mouth tugging upwards.

"I meant every word I said, Grantaire," he said softly before turning his gaze towards the front of Grantaire's jeans. "Now, go clean yourself up. I imagine you have quite a mess to get rid of."

And with a pat on Grantaire's shoulder, Enjolras was gone, leaving Grantaire to try and figure out what the hell just happened.


	2. Chapter 2

Grantaire stayed away from the Musain for a few days after the incident with Enjolras. He knew he couldn't face him again—not yet, anyway—and he needed time to think. He texted his friends, letting them know he was busy with a new painting, saying he wasn't feeling well, whatever worked. No one seemed to question it except for Joly, who was immediately concerned for Grantaire's health and told Bossuet to check in on their friend.

Bossuet took one look at Grantaire and knew that his health was perfectly fine, noting that his hands were suspiciously paint-free for once.

"Tell me, what's wrong," he said as he invited himself into Grantaire's apartment. Grantaire rolled his eyes, recognizing an order, not a question. "It's not like you to hole up like this."

"Yes it is," Grantaire pointed out.

"Okay, yeah, but you're not covered in paint and your health is perfectly fine," Bossuet shot back, moving an empty beer bottle off of the small couch. "Not painting, not sick, _and_ drinking alone? Without Joly or me?" He shot his friend a fierce, determined look as he crossed his arms. "Start talking. Something's up."

Grantaire sighed and sunk into his favorite beaten-up armchair. "It's Enjolras."

"That's hardly news, R. What did he say this time?"

Now _there's_  a question, Grantaire thought to himself. Thinking about what Enjolras said still made Grantaire blush, and he looked down, his fingers playing with the threads at the hole in his jeans.

"Well . . . it's not just what he said. It's what he did, too, but it's also what he said and I—" Grantaire huffed out a sigh as he dragged a hand over his face. "I can't believe I'm telling you this."

Bossuet raised an eyebrow and watched Grantaire, realizing just how uncomfortable Grantaire suddenly was.

"Listen, R, you don't have to tell me if you don't want to," he said, leaning forward. "But is everything . . . alright? All I need to know is that you're ok."

Grantaire grinned softly from his chair, relieved. "I'm ok. Or I'll be ok. I just . . . need some time?"

Bossuet nodded and stood to leave. "Right. So I'll go ahead and report back to everyone that your painting is going well but you wouldn't let me see it and that you're recovering well, but still resting up. Got it."

Grantaire laughed. "What would I do without you, Bossuet?"

"Cry, probably," Bossuet answered with a wink as he left. 

After that, Grantaire felt much better. He started painting in earnest after Bossuet's visit, and two days later he decided that being around his friends was what he needed, not being isolated with only his thoughts for company.

He still wasn't sure why Enjolras had done what he did. How long had he known about Grantaire's strange little kink? Why did he act on that knowledge when he did? Why did he act on it at all? It wasn't like Enjolras to be cruel—cold, yes, but not cruel—so then why did he do it? Grantaire had trouble believing that Enjolras _liked_  praising Grantaire, that he had _liked_  getting Grantaire off, but that was the only plausible thing Grantaire could think of.

Whatever the reason, Grantaire needed to find out at some point. Just . . . not yet.

When he did return to the Musain, everyone was glad to see him and the room filled with overlapping voices. Everyone was a little surprised, however, when someone loudly cleared their throat, and they turned as one to look at Enjolras.

Clearing his throat once more, Enjolras tried not to look too concerned as he shuffled some papers around. "Good to see you, Grantaire. Glad you're feeling better. How's the, uhm, the painting going?"

Grantaire looked at Enjolras for a few seconds, not sure how to respond. "Uh, it's good? Yeah. It's good."

Enjolras nodded and turned back to his papers, and Grantaire had a sudden feeling that the other man hadn't been asking about his painting.

—————

A week or so passed without incident; Grantaire didn't interject with arguments when Enjolras was debating, and Enjolras didn't refute anything that Grantaire said. Only once every so often would Enjolras ask Grantaire a carefully worded question, and Grantaire answered as casually as he could, preferring not to meet Enjolras' gaze. If anyone noticed anything they didn't say a word, although Grantaire was sure he saw Combeferre pointedly looking back and forth at them over the rim of his glasses a few times.

Grantaire knew they'd have to talk about what happened, but he wasn't prepared for it just as they were all leaving the Musain after a meeting.

"Grantaire," Enjolras called just as Grantaire was about to walk out with Bahorel and Jehan. "Could I talk to you for a second?"

Well, shit.

Turning and walking back towards Enjolras, he fiddled with the string of his hoodie. Anything to keep his hand busy. Combeferre was the last to leave, looking at Enjolras with a raised eyebrow before shutting the door firmly behind him.

Enjolras stood behind his table, shuffling papers and reorganizing without really looking at Grantaire. Moments of silence went by, filled only by the rustling of the papers and Grantaire shifting from foot to foot. He felt more like he was in the principal's office than anything.

Finally, Enjolras sighed, putting his piles of paper down.

"Look, Grantaire, about the other day—"

"Oh, god," Grantaire muttered, which made Enjolras finally look up at him. He looked as embarrassed about this as Grantaire himself felt, which was . . . unexpected.

"Look, Grantaire," he started again, "there's no way of denying that the other day happened, that I . . . well, that I made you . . ." He waved his hand generally in the air in Grantaire's direction.

"Get off in my pants?"

Enjolras sighed, relieved that he didn't have to say it, as if that somehow made it better. "Yes. I really don't know what made me think that it was ok to make you . . . to put you in that position. And in public, in front of all of our friends? It was wrong. So wrong. And I'm sorry that I did that, Grantaire. I need you to know that. I don't need or expect you to accept that apology; you have every right _not_  to accept it. I took away your consent, and that is never ok. But I truly am sorry that I did that to you."

Grantaire wasn't sure what he had expected, but it certainly hadn't been that. He was silent, gaping at Enjolras in silent shock. The only thing that made him speak was the earnest, desperate look on the blond's face, which was silently begging for some sort of response.

"Why," he finally said, unable to say much else as his brain scrambled to catch up.

"Why . . . am I apologizing? I told you, taking away your consent was wrong, and I—"

"No, why did you do it. You knew it was wrong. So, why?"

Silence was the only answer Grantaire received before Enjolras broke their gaze, turning his eyes to the floor.

"I honestly don't know why I did it then. It just seemed to be the right time. I noticed a while ago that you react . . . in that way to receiving praise, and . . . I wanted to be the one to make you react that way, but not while everyone was watching. And, I'll admit, I was scared to do it after a meeting, just us two."

Grantaire was pretty sure his hearing was going, because there was no way Enjolras just admitted to wanting to do that to him.

"But then Combeferre saw what I did and pointed out that—"

"Whoa, wait, Combeferre _saw what you did_?!"

Enjolras paused. "Uhm, yes? He was discreet and told no one, but he pointed out that you had never consented to getting off with me—" a stifled squeak slipped out of Grantaire at those words, "and that's when I realized that I had taken away your consent and put you in an uncomfortable position and I've been hating myself for it."

Grantaire took a moment to think everything over before he spoke. "So what you're saying is that you wanted to get me off, that was your intent, you . . . maybe liked it, and now realize you fucked up?" Enjolras nodded. "Ok. Ok, good. That's . . . fuck, Enjolras."

"You're not mad, are you? I mean, I get it if you are but—"

"I was, for a little bit, but I was more confused than anything."

"Ah."

The room fell into silence again.

"So, what now?" Grantaire asked.

"What now? Oh. Well, honestly, that's up to you."

Grantaire thought for a moment, trying to collect his thoughts. "So correct me if I'm wrong, but you'd be up for more . . . of that? Together?" Enjolras paused before silently nodding again. "Shit, ok. That's—yes, I am totally ok with us doing more together. Just maybe not so publicly next time?"

Enjolras grinned. "Sounds good to me."

"Alright."

"Alright."

Grantaire shifted from foot to foot again, smiling at how happy—or at least, relieved—Enjolras looked. At how happy _he_  had made Enjolras, who was clearing his throat.

"Right," Grantaire said, realizing they had been staring at each other and that he may have been grinning stupidly. "I'll, uh, see you around, then? Well, obviously, I mean we always see each but I just mean—"

"Grantaire," Enjolras cut in with a smile, "have a good afternoon."

Grantaire's grin faded into fond smile. "Yeah. You, too."

—————

After that, things went back to normal for Grantaire and Enjolras; Grantaire frequently interjected counter arguments to which Enjolras answered in kind. More and more often, though, Enjolras would ask Grantaire for his opinion on this or that, and Grantaire would answer honestly.

Whenever Grantaire received even the smallest praise, even just a "good job, R," Enjolras would look at Grantaire as if waiting to detect some sort of reaction. Once he nearly tripped over a chair turning around when he overheard Bahorel compliment him on his "mean left hook". Courfeyrac had burst out laughing, and Combeferre sighed.

The worst reaction Enjolras had, however, was after Grantaire's foray into pavement chalk.

Grantaire's phone buzzed on his coffee table, and he rolled over on his couch where he had collapsed around five that morning. Groaning when he realized it was just a little past seven, he opened the message.

**From: Courf** _hooooly shit R please tell me this was you this screams you_

Grantaire couldn't help but smile as he enlarged the attached picture Courfeyrac had taken. It was of one of the busiest parts of a local public park, and the pavement was covered in beautiful, colorful chalk art. Looking closer, you could see that all of the interlocking images were figures throughout history who had stood up and spoken for the minorities, whomever that may be for each era. At the end, Grantaire knew, people would see a large image of Enjolras along with their friends behind him, and a link to their website that Combeferre regularly updated.

**To: Courf** _if my chalk-covered hands and clothes mean anything right now, then i cant deny it_

**From: Courf** _holy fuck, R!!! this is AMAZING I'm telling everyone to go there asap meet you at the Musain at 9_

Sighing but smiling, Grantaire dropped his phone and ran his hands through his hair before he realized what a bad idea that had been. Ah well, he thought; he needed a shower anyway.

Grantaire ended up getting to the Musain past nine, and the whole place was already full and erupted into cheers and exclamations as everyone swarmed towards him. He ended up being scooped up by Bossuet and Bahorel, sitting on their shoulders with a beer that had been shoved into his hand as everyone cheered him on and toasted him.

After a minute of being help aloft and paraded and praised, he really shouldn't have been surprised when he shifted to get a better grip on Bossuet's shoulder and realized he was getting hard.

His eyes immediately flicked around the room to seek out— ah, there he was. Enjolras was leaning back against a far table, brows furrowed slightly and arms loosely crossed. Grantaire caught his eye and cocked his head, but before either could do anything more, Combeferre shouted over the noise as he stood on a chair with his laptop.

"Quiet! Shush—shut up, Courf! Everyone, listen to this: thanks to Grantaire's all-nighter art project, our site has already had fifty-six percent more hits than average, and over forty people have already signed up for our newsletter!"

The room burst into noise again, and Grantaire suddenly found himself on ground level surrounded by his friends' hugs and claps on shoulders. But still Enjolras sulked quietly, observing.

And Grantaire was still just as aroused as ever.

Eventually people realized that they had classes to attended, and Enjolras dismissed everyone to their studies or continued celebrations without even discussing any matters on that days' agenda. As everyone filed out of the room, Grantaire once again found himself and Enjolras alone in their private room at the back of the bar.

A few moments went by before Enjolras finally spoke. "Congratulations on that," he said shortly.

Grantaire couldn't help but bark out a laugh as he sat on the edge of a table. "Thanks, I guess."

Again, silence.

"You, uhm . . ." Enjolras paused, collecting his thoughts. "You received quite a few words of praise for your effort. That's . . . good?"

Grantaire chuckled. "If that's your way of asking if it got me going," he asked, leaning in closer to Enjolras, "the answer's _yes_." He watched the other man's breath hitch slightly as his eyes go wide. "You know, if I didn't know any better, I'd say you were jealous today."

Enjolras' jaw opened as if to protest before it snapped shut again as he crossed his arms tightly against his chest and glared at the floor.

Grantaire grinned smugly.

"Shut up," Enjolras said, with no venom behind his words.

"Make me."

Suddenly Enjolras' eyes were on Grantaire, dark and focused. Something passed between them. "Is that—?"

"An invitation?" Grantaire finished, watching as Enjolras nodded and suddenly feeling a lot less confident than his demeanor suggested. "It might be."

Enjolras took a deep, stilling breath, his fingers pulling at the fabric of his sleeves. He looked Grantaire over until Grantaire was itching to just leap off the table and push their mouths together, although he was suddenly keenly aware that he had no idea how far he would be able to take this thing between them.

Finally snapping out of his reverie, Enjolras quickly crossed the room to lock the door, and Grantaire couldn't help but be thankful that they had had that installed. As Enjolras turned and slowly made his way back to the other man, Grantaire shifted on the table's edge, leaning back to support his weight on his arms and to not-so-subtly spread his legs. Enjolras' step faltered.

"Grantaire," he choked out, looking at the man's spread legs and clearly seeing where he was still half-hard, "today may not have been the best day to wear such tight jeans."

"True, but if anyone noticed they didn't say anything, so from where I'm sitting right now it looks like it was the perfect day to wear them."

Enjolras was close then, only a step away from being between Grantaire's legs and still staring down at the other man's crotch. "Jesus, Grantaire, do you know how good these look on you?"

Falling silent, Grantaire's smug grin fell as those words sank in. He felt arousal creep low in his abdomen, and he was once again getting fully hard.

"I mean, we all know you're fit," Enjolras said, taking that final step into the space between Grantaire's spread legs, "but I had no idea how strong your legs must be. It makes sense, seeing as you box and dance, but I never really thought about it . . ." He trailed off, delicately placing a hand onto Grantaire's thigh. The action elicited a shaky breath from the dancer on the table. "I can feel just how strong the muscle is," he said almost to himself as he trailed his hand across the denim-clad thigh. "I can't imagine how much training this took, how much dedication. That really is amazing, Grantaire. People often think that you don't do much—don't argue, I know that people outside this group write you off without a thought—but they don't know how hard you work. You're one of the most dedicated men I've ever known."

Grantaire bit back a small moan and inched himself closer to the edge, closer to Enjolras, who had started moving in at the same moment and their combined movement made Enjolras' fingers hit the bulge at the front of Grantaire's jeans.

Pulling his hand back suddenly, Enjolras looked sharply down at Grantaire's groin, for once not sure what to do. They looked at each other, unsure, each aware that there was no turning back from whatever came next.

"Take your shirt off," Enjolras ordered hoarsely.

Grantaire lost no time in yanking off his old plaid button-up before pulling his t-shirt over his head.

"Fuck, Grantaire," Enjolras cursed, eyes darting everywhere at once, taking everything in. "You look—you look amazing." He moved forward again and touched the man's collarbone, tracing the hollow there. Another hand made its way to Grantaire's bicep, where he slowly thumbed the muscle there. "Grantaire, you're so . . . so much more than anyone gives you credit for. You have so many talents," he went on, the hand at the collarbone drifting down to cover part of his chest, "and you're so smart," now, delicate pale fingers were tracing lines of abs, "and you're so . . ." Enjolras paused, looking Grantaire in the eye, waiting for him to nod before he cupped the front of his jeans, ". . . generous."

Grantaire moaned as Enjolras kneaded him through the denim, not caring if the other man had meant generous as in _kind and giving_ or _well-endowed_. Enjolras was leaning in close, still bracing himself against Grantaire's arm when he stopped suddenly, his hand stilling before moving to grab at Grantaire's belt buckle.

"I'd feel terrible if I made you make a mess of your pants again," he said, Grantaire noticing the glint in his eye and the smirk playing at his mouth. "So take them off."

Grantaire lost no time standing, fumbling at his buckle and zipper before he was even on his feet before shoving his jeans down to his ankles. Enjolras took a moment to gape, and Grantaire was pretty sure he heard him curse again.

"T-table. Get back on the table."

Sitting back on the table edge again and spreading his legs, Grantaire waited for Enjolras to make a move. But he didn't; Enjolras stood there in front of him and just observed him.

"What do you want?" Enjolras asked, somewhat hoarsely.

"What?"

Enjolras licked his lips and spoke louder. "Tell me what you want."

Grantaire's mind raced with possible answers. First and foremost, he'd love to not be the only one in the room not wearing clothes, but he still wasn't sure where the line between them landed. Now that he wasn't doing anything, he finally noticed the prominent bulge in Enjolras' pants and cursed under his breath. Enjolras heard, however, and his face went red when he saw where Grantaire was looking.

"You, uh, are enjoying . . . this," Grantaire said awkwardly as he watched Enjolras turn even redder, "so you tell me what you want me to do."

Enjolras looked like he'd just been given a wonderful gift.

"Touch yourself," Enjolras finally said, sounding sure of himself. Grantaire did as he said, flicking a thumb over the head to slick himself with the precome that had already started leaking. For a while the only sound in the room was of skin against skin, Grantaire looking Enjolras straight in the eye, waiting for him to make a move.

Enjolras stood a few feet away, silently watching the muscles of Grantaire's arms as he pumped his arm up and down. He watched as the head of Grantaire's cock slipped in and out of his hand. Enjolras' breath started to become sharp as he watched, as if he were the one getting off. "Grantaire, you're so—shit, you're so _big_ ," he said on an exhale. "I could hold you with both of my hands, couldn't I?"

Grantaire groaned and sped up his pace.

"What you did for us, for the cause, was phenomenal. Your artwork has already brought us so much exposure, so much fresh, positive attention. You did all of that, and we could never properly thank you."

"You could get naked, for a start."

Enjolras froze, and Grantaire realized too late that he probably just crossed that invisible line between them, the one that made it ok for Enjolras to touch and see but so far had left Grantaire with only bulges in pants to look at and breathy words to listen to. After a moment, though, Enjolras seemed to decide something and nodded to himself before unbuckling his belt.

"Holy hell, Enjolras," Grantaire said in a rush, momentarily stilling his hand on his cock. "I didn't mean that, I just said it without thinking—"

"Grantaire," Enjolras cut in, pausing with his belt. "I asked you earlier what you want. Do you want me to touch myself?"

Grantaire could only groan and nod jerkily as he continued working himself, knowing that it wouldn't be long before he felt climax approach low in his gut.

"Alright then," Enjolras said more to himself than anything.

Grantaire watched as the other man moved his belt out of the way, deft fingers making short work of the button and fly of his trousers. Enjolras paused, his thumbs ready to pull his pants down. Grantaire held his breath before Enjolras pushed his pants and boxer briefs down in one swift movement, pushing them down just enough for his cock to spring out, already hard from watching Grantaire.

"Fuck," Grantaire all but moaned as the hand on his cock sped up. "Fuck, Enjolras, if you don't jerk off right now I'll have to blow you."

Enjolras looked at Grantaire, his eyes wide, before Grantaire realized what he said. Which made Grantaire think of _actually_  doing that to Enjolras.

Enjolras was obviously thinking the same thing and let out a harsh breath, breaking the sudden silence as he immediately began to jerk himself off.

Grantaire's rhythm was completely off, but he didn't care, not when he was sitting there literally watching one of his fantasies play out in front of him. Enjolras looked beautiful like this, standing in front of him just a few feet away; breath quick, skin flushed, and chest rising and falling under the thin layer of his shirt as he lost no time in getting himself off. Grantaire took in everything, from the thumb Enjolras swiped through the bead of precome to the way his fingers encircled himself.

The more Grantaire looked, the more he thought about really giving Enjolras a blowjob, because he certainly had a cock that looked perfect for it.

"Fuck," he said again, feeling his muscles tensing and his breathing come faster. "Enjolras, I'm gonna . . ."

Enjolras moaned and sped up as he watched Grantaire's head loll back as he came with a groan, come shooting up into the air with unexpected force.

Grantaire opened his eyes, breathing heavy, to look at Enjolras. The blond looked ready to pull his own dick off if he weren't careful.

"Hi," Grantaire said softly, voice thick and suddenly very aware of how very naked he was.

Enjolras groaned again, and Grantaire noted that Enjolras seemed much more guttural than he would have expected right before Enjolras came, slick spilling over his hand as his eyes never left Grantaire's.

"Shit, Enjolras."

Enjolras, the fucker, actually laughed as he came down from his orgasm.

"I'm sorry, I just . . ." he waved his hand around, not caring that it was still covered in warm stickiness.

"Yeah," Grantaire said, getting what Enjolras had meant. It was a lot to take in, what had just happened. He thought about it a moment, the two of them just smiling softly at one another as they regained their breath. Grantaire felt great, and suddenly he felt the overwhelming need to kiss Enjolras.

Clearing his throat in a poor attempt to tramp down on that last urge, Grantaire looked down at his hand and his groin, realizing that things were starting to get tacky.

"We should clean up," Enjolras said, looking at his own hand and cock before shifting his gaze to the floor where he could see their combined mess. "Ah. Yes."

Grantaire looked and realized the mess they had made on the floor before it hit him that their jizz was on the Musain's floor. And his naked ass was still on their table. A table people eat at.

"I'll, uh, clean myself up then go grab some paper towels and wet wipes," he said as he hopped off the table, careful to avoid putting his feet in the wrong spot.

Enjolras smiled softly and nodded, and all Grantaire really wanted to do was curl up against the blond, cuddle, and sleep. He sighed at the thought as he made his way to the small restroom in the back to clean up.

By the time Grantaire had come out he saw that Enjolras had moved his clothes onto the table, more-or-less spread out. He was, however, holding Grantaire's boxer briefs delicately between his fingers as if it was going to bite him at any moment.

"I checked to make sure they didn't get any, uh, anything on them," he said, answering the question Grantaire was thinking. "Everything seems to have escaped unscathed except, uhm, except these."

Grantaire laughed. "A small sacrifice to make in the line of fire. He fought bravely."

Enjolras turned to make his way to the restroom, rolling his eyes in a way that Grantaire knew he really didn't mean. Grantaire watched the door click close before he shook his head and began to put his clothes back on, shoving his spoilt underwear into the back pocket of his jeans.

Ten minutes later, after the Musain's table and floor had been thoroughly scrubbed by Enjolras and Grantaire, they made their way towards the door to leave only for Enjolras to suddenly pause.

"Grantaire, I hope you know that I really do appreciate what you did today."

Grantaire raised an eyebrow and smirked. "I know. You made it pretty damn obvious that you were _appreciating_ what I was doing."

"No, not that," Enjolras said, waving him off. "Well, I mean, of course I appreciated _that_ , but I was talking about us, as a whole. About what you did for our group, our cause."

Under Enjolras' intense gaze, Grantaire suddenly felt . . . off. He suddenly couldn't bring himself to look Enjolras in the eye. It was too much like that first time, when Enjolras was praising his art so sincerely. He looked at their feet instead.

"What you did last night without telling anyone, that one, silent act has done so much for us already. You heard Combeferre, hits were through the roof, and . . . Grantaire. Graintaire, look at me."

Out of nowhere there were delicate, long fingers tilting Grantaire's chin up and Grantaire found himself looking straight into Enjolras's eyes, mere inches from his own.

"What you did for us," Enjolras continued softly, "managed to make more of an impact than any of our speeches or rallies have lately. What you did was show us all that art, that _beauty_ , can speak so much more than any of my speeches have."

Grantaire's breath hitched, and a moment passed between them. Enjolras' eyes darted down to Grantaire's lips as he licked them nervously.

A sudden knock from the other side of the door made them both jump apart, hearts racing.

"Any of you boys still in there?"

Musichetta.

Grantaire ran a hand down his face at the same time that Enjolras pinched the bridge of his nose.

"Just coming now, Musichetta," Enjolras called.

Grantaire looked over to Enjolras and grinned. "Again? So soon?"

Enjolras glared for the briefest moment before the flush on his cheeks betrayed him.

Grantaire burst out laughing as he made his way towards the door, saluting Musichetta as he passed her in the hall and leaving Enjolras behind him, smiling fondly.


End file.
